


Stay

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Death, Drug Use, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, photographer!harry, zarry - friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 12:34:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title from the song Stay by Rihanna ft. Mikkey Ekko; the song also inspired this. It’s beautiful, so hear it if you haven’t. Sorry for my surplus use of the word and, for all the fucking italics, for the downright nonsense, and, okay yeah, for all the run-on sentences that basically make up this whole story.  </p><p>The bridge is real and I changed its’ characteristics for selfish reasons and I think the way I made it just fits better, somehow.</p><p>I don’t own One Direction and this is just fiction, so it never happened.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. February, March, and April

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song Stay by Rihanna ft. Mikkey Ekko; the song also inspired this. It’s beautiful, so hear it if you haven’t. Sorry for my surplus use of the word and, for all the fucking italics, for the downright nonsense, and, okay yeah, for all the run-on sentences that basically make up this whole story. 
> 
> The bridge is real and I changed its’ characteristics for selfish reasons and I think the way I made it just fits better, somehow.
> 
> I don’t own One Direction and this is just fiction, so it never happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On hiatus :(

__

* * *

_‘Cause when you never see the light, it’s hard to know which one of us is caving._

There’s a bridge in London named the Hornsey Lane Bridge. Harry’s heard of it, heard of the heartbreaking things that happen there. The bridge is far from where he lives, so yeah; he surprises himself when he gets into his Range Rover and drives to it.

 _Curiosity killed the cat_ , but Harry can’t stop thinking about the people who have killed themselves here.

The bridge isn’t extensive like the Golden Gate Bridge he once visited in California, or the Brooklyn Bridge in New York; it’s rather short, but wide, and it has gone without care for several years. The walls of the bridge are adorned with flowers, some wilting, some blossoming, and letters expressing sorrow.

Harry wraps his arms around his chest, protecting him against the chill of the gloomy February afternoon, against the tightness of his heart. His fingers twitch—they want to reach for the Canon hidden in the deep pocket of his peacoat; they want his eyes and the lens to line up with the drying flowers, the yellowing of the letters, the bright red of some roses still wrapped up in plastic; they want to press down on the shutter button and capture something so tragic, so demoralizing, something so _real_.

It’s getting dark and the trees off to the ends of the bridge are tall and murky, creating haunting shadows that push Harry further onto the bridge. He focuses on the crimson roses wrapped in clear plastic—they’re bright against the grey of the walls and the fading papers so he presses down on the shutter button with no hesitation. It’s beautiful and grievous. 

He shivers, a strong ripple of fear shooting through his body. He’s not scared to be out on the bridge by himself, holding a terribly expensive camera, no. He thinks of the pictures he saw years earlier where a Chinese couple are captured jumping off a bridge in the background of some innocent family photographs.

He’s scared for the people who have died here. For the strangers Harry will never know anything of. He leans against the side of the bridge, staring down at the gray blue waters so far below. Fear wants to swallow up his lungs—he can’t imagine doing that. He can’t imagine leaving everything, everyone, behind and jumping. But he knows he doesn’t _understand_ , he doesn’t know the reasons behind taking your own life, he’s not sure if there is one, maybe, besides extreme unhappiness and hopelessness.

Harry thinks he doesn’t ever want to know. Because, _Jesus fuck_ , the water is so far down below and freezing cold, and it’s immediate death that one is running to and greeting. The impact of the water on your body is like an ice cube on a hot frying pan—fast. It’s quick and you’re melting instantly until all that’s left is water and then you vaporize into thin air. You’re just gone, poof.

He tightens his grip on the camera and tries to swallow the massive piece of burning coal in his throat. He walks further down the bridge. He captures a single lily pinned up against the wall with duct tape. The lily is withering and the tips which were once snow white are now blotches of mustard. There’s a small piece of paper taped next to the flower; it’s a fading pink colour with white lines and has the Hello Kitty logo on the top, shit, Harry knows he shouldn’t, but he squats down and takes a deep breath. 

_Daddy,_

_We miss you! Mommy says you’re in heaven and that you’re smiling all the time now. It was my birthday last Monday and I turned 11! Mommy says that you saw me blow out the candles from up in the sky! I had to blow up the balloons for my party with grandpa, since you weren’t here to do it with me but its okay. I got second place in the spelling bee. I know you always said to go for first but that trying is what’s important. I tried really hard, Daddy. I hope you read this from heaven and that it makes you smile. I love you bunches. - Lily xx_

His vision is blurry as he captures the letter alongside the flower. He wipes at his face, the hot tears leaving a trail on his cold face. Harry doesn’t know why the hell he’s here or why his fingers keep pressing down on the capture button, filling his memory card with memories and stories that aren’t his.

There’s a large, neon-yellow poster board further down the bridge. _If you’re looking for a sign not to jump, this is it_ is carefully written in black, bold letters with a number on the bottom. _It’s okay to be afraid but we care and we can help_. He moves backwards until his back reaches the wall across from the poster, he lifts his camera up to his face, and he takes a photograph of the sign standing out vibrantly besides the pale of everything else.

 _It’s okay to be afraid_ runs through his mind. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t comprehend, but something tells him that fear has to be the one that gives you the final push as you stand on the edge. To take your life in anyway—it has to be fear.

There are more letters taped to the brick wall and Harry’s sure his mind is completely blown away at the accumulating amount of jumpers.

_Cassie,_

_We miss you, darling. Harley says hi and that he misses your daily walks to Kingston Park..._

_Will,_

_Miss you bro. Hope you’re doing better wherever the hell you are. The band’s not the same without you..._

He walks off the bridge with snow falling softly around him, and Harry is sure he’s never been so unsure of life itself.

 

* * *

 

_Everything is dark; it’s more than you can take. But you catch a glimpse of sunlight shining, shining, shining down on your face._

 

Something sends shivers up his spine and shoots tingles through his veins and he doesn’t know why he’s here, or how he got here—it seems his mind was lost in the hazy clouds that invaded his skull and had his body on autopilot as he drove here at seven in the morning. He hasn’t been here in a month and for some reason he feels very vulnerable, very exposed without his camera. All he knows is that he’s fucking cold; his hair is pretty much frozen and dangling with icicles, his balls are about to fall off at any moment, and that—fuck.

 Fuck, someone is on the bridge.

A splatter of liquid at his feet makes him catch his breath, but his mind can’t relate the lost of warmth in his left hand with the Styrofoam cup now tainting white with chocolate brown. His heart could just simply be another contestant at the Indy500 in search of a gold trophy and bottles of champagne with the way it races at dangerous speeds, and Harry is suddenly frozen. His body can’t move and his brain is being overruled by dark clouds that want to unleash and just wipe away with hard pellets of rain what he’s seeing.

There’s a lad standing on the wrong side of the bridge, on the dangerous side, on the fucking edge, and there are quiet sobs breaking free from his small frame and he seems to _understand_.

The lad lets out a scream—a heart wrenching, broken, completely lost yell at the gray skies and Harry can feel the fear and the loss of hope, and it’s like his own mind is opening up an umbrella to shield him from the rains and he wants nothing more than to pull the boy onto the other side with him. His feet are shuffling on top of slippery, two-day snow but he gets there and the boy sees him.

Except he’s not a _boy_ ; he looks older than Harry with at least a weeks worth of stubble and deep bags of lilac underneath tired eyes.

“Please, please don’t dare come any closer.”

His voice is soft and poignant, and just sounds so fucking _tired_. His eyes are a blue colour, one Harry is certain he wouldn’t be able to find in a Crayola box; they’re clear and deep, like the Caribbean Ocean, but fuzzy and uncertain like mist in the early mornings.

Harry thinks he’s gorgeous—gorgeous in a miserable, maddening way with his caramel fringe sweeping over one side and his thin pink lips turned down. But his eyes—Harry can’t get away from the lads’ eyes—they’re the pure definition of fear and melancholy.

Harry’s speechless. His mouth is gaping and despite the early spring weather, he’s sweating underneath his favourite white jumper. He doesn’t know how to save a life, what to say, or if he can _even_ save the frantic lad. He races through the lyrics of _How to save a life_ , but they don’t apply one bit. “I-I,” his brain is fuzzy and overwhelmed and _shit_ , “what are you doing?” He winces because out of all the things that could possibly be said, he goes and says that?

The eyes squint with annoyance and his voice is gravely, “What does it look like?” the lad turns his head back around to face the water, but his knuckles are iron-hot white; strongly gripping the bars on top of the wall.

Harry doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone so beautiful in his life and a wave of nausea comes over him. He finally understands the meaning behind _heart wrenching_. “I just, I don’t understand. Don’t do this, things—things can’t be so bad that you—“

A loud, strangled noise comes from the boy who can’t be much older than Harry and is he—is he _laughing_? Fragile-like shoulders hidden underneath a worn, simple grey tee shake roughly with laughter. His eyes flit up and down the younger lad critically and, wow, Harry thinks he has never felt so exposed in his life.

“What would a rich, pretty boy know about things being _bad_?” The laughter turns into soft gasps for air, and while the words spoken are meant to be harsh they’re said too softly to jab at Harry. The grasp on the bars loosen slightly before small hands clutch tightly again.

Harry shivers and sucks in a lungful of bitter air that turns into an instant tremble down his spine. “I-I. I’ve had bad things happen before,” he murmurs. It wasn’t supposed to be this... complicated. The stranger was supposed to listen to Harry speak gentle, convincing words and climb back over, _not question Harry._

A smirk plays out on thin pastel rose-petal lips. “Bad enough to attempt to off yourself, mate?” He already knows the answer, because no, Harry wouldn’t try to kill himself, and it’s obvious by the alarm in his eyes. “Surely crashing your daddys’ Porsche or being dumped by your girlfriend never made you climb on the side of a bride.”

Harry wonders if this is what Jack felt when Rose was about to jump into the cold Atlantic, but no, probably not because Jack was smooth and handsome, and knew what to say, while Rose didn’t really want to jump, just maybe wanted to be saved.“No, I guess I’ve just been lucky.”

The lad shakes his head, a wispy lock of dirty gold hair falling on his face. “There’s no such thing as luck,” he murmurs. Harry wants to reach over and put it back in place and he wants to grab him by his small waist and pull him to safety and he _wantswantswants_ anything other than the boy with lifeless eyes to jump.

“I can help you.”

He scoffs, “Yeah, and how?”

Harry takes a timid step closer, “By listening, by being your friend.”

He shakes his head violently, “You’re wasting my time.”

“No!” Harry panics and moves close enough to the lad to make out each precise curve on the wings of the swallow that makes itself at home on his right forearm.

 “W-why?” His lips are the colour of raspberry cotton candy and they can’t stop trembling—the cold is finally getting to him. His body shakes violently now and the numbness in his hands burn against the iron bars; Harry’s positive he won’t hold on for much longer.  “Why would you want to help me? You don’t even know me. For all you know I could be a fucking serial killer or something.”

Harry shrugs nonchalantly, “I don’t believe you need to exactly know someone to know that you can help them.” He doesn’t have any idea where he’s going with this, what to say, or what to do with his clammy hands because _fuck_ , is this really happening? Is Harry really standing on a bridge trying to prevent a stranger from killing himself? Harry who lives with his best friend in a flat in central London and eats only the charms in Lucky Charms out of beakers for dinner? Harry who loathes pop music until he hops into the shower and secretly loves watching reality shows on his telly? “And you don’t really look like a serial killer to me, but hey, I guess I can take my chances.”

“Well, surely the women who flirted with Ted Bundy didn’t think so either,” he breathes out.

Harry lays his blue-gloved hands on the wall of the bridge, “I think... I believe I can save you. We all need a little saving. A little help from a friend, right? I can be your friend. Maybe, I don’t know, maybe I need saving, too.” Harry’s rambling uncertainly and the boy is just staring at him with impassive azure eyes, making his heart clench anxiously because he’s sure the lad thinks he’s just making a load up, and yeah, he kinda is, but _holy shit_ , Harry has never been in a situation similar like this, he’s never dealt with anything remotely suicidal or severe.

“You’ll teach me?” The lad closes his eyes. His arms shake from both the pressure of keeping himself up and out of the bottomless waters and the glacial spring weather. His chest trembles idly. His legs quiver, legs that Harry’s certain—in a different situation, obviously—would be perfect, with their nicely muscled thighs, wrapped around his own waist.

“Teach you?”

The lad nods, “teach me how to live again?” His eyes open again and Harry sucks in a breath—he had never seen eyes so blue, so defenceless, and so _innocent_.

“Of-of course I will, I will teach you.” Harry smiles tentatively and prays; prays to every God he has never believed in; to Buddha and Allah, to every saint; to Mother Theresa and the Pope; to every angel, to everything he fucking knows and doesn’t know, and to all the stars in every galaxy undiscovered millions of light years away that Blue Eyes will ask for his hand, climb down and let himself hope again. 

The lad closes his eyes again.

With only the exchange of quiet shivers and clouds of cold that accompany every deep breath, minuets pass.  

Harry panics—maybe he misread everything; maybe he’s going to jump off, maybe he’s going to leave this earth hearing Harry’s desperate pleas that turn into mournful screams; maybe Harry’s going to have to pull out his cell phone and call the ambulance; maybe he’s going to get interviewed, appear on the telly, and be recognized around the city as the boy who let the other boy die; and maybe Harry’s going to live with the fact that he couldn’t save a life.

“W-w-what will happen? If I get off of here? Where will I go?” a weary voice makes Harry’s eyes snap open (when did they close?) and he’s met with a pair of eyes.  He wants to know his name and the exact colour of his eyes because they’re not just blue; they are more than blue, more than a simple colour—they’re all the colours in the world, all the colours of the oceans, of the rivers, of the skies; they’re not any colour he’s heard of. They’re not a colour in a crayon box or in a set of expensive paints. They’re a colour used by Michelangelo in Sixteenth Chapel alongside the angels. They’re a deep azure, a light blue, a clear blue, a hazy blue—a _blueblueblue_ Harry wants to memorize.

“You’ll come back to mine—unless you wish not to?” Harry has no clue on how to teach someone to bloody _live_. He doesn’t want to know what Niall will think of him inviting a complete stranger, a depressed, suicidal one at the most, to live with them. He’s stuck inside most of the day and he’s supposed to teach someone to _live again_?

The lad disregards his question, “What’ll happen afterwards?”

“I, well, I’m not sure. I’ve never been in this situation before, so, basically. Perhaps I’ll make some hot coffee and get some warm pastries and we’ll do whatever we please.”

“I favour tea.”

“Oh, okay, well—“

And the lad is carefully turning around, his bones quivering from the cold, and he looks at Harry with eyes as clear as the British skies during a blessed summer and as dark and unexplained as an abrupt tsunami ready to destroy homes and take souls.

_Maybe he just needs to be saved._

They’re both quiet as the he jumps over the bar, landing carefully with a soft thud.

Harry can’t remember when he stopped breathing but suddenly air is like cold water and he’s been lost in the scorching Sahara desert for days. Relief is being pumped into his body with every _thumpthumpthump_ of his heart and it wraps itself around his bones because the lad isn’t on the ledge anymore; he’s not contemplating to jump to his death—no, he’s standing, shaking from the cold and the fear and the exposure; peeking at Harry through a caramel fringe like he’s a warm jumper disregarded and thrown into a box labelled _lost and found_ and Harrys’ the one who will pick him up, take him home, wrap his warmth around him, and cuddle him on cold nights.

All Harry wants is for the nameless boy with the beautiful, heartbreaking eyes and golden skin marked with symbols and words to learn to love and be loved, to hope, to trust, to live life, to be happy, _to smile_. All Harry wants is to capture the pink lips; the striking contrast between the black ink of _it is what it is_ against sunshine-kissed collarbones that peek out shyly; the curve of high brows; the round of a tummy that shows underneath a thin tee; the thickness of thighs so deliciously hidden—all Harry wants is to capture a sad, beautiful boy with a long story and a preference for tea on his camera so he can keep a little of him to himself.

All Harry wants to do is lock their fingers together and throw the key into the river below.

 

His name is _Louis._

Louis Tomlinson.

 _Louis Tomlinson_ is being repeated in Harrys’ mind like a broken record.   _Louis_ fits him, _Louis_ is just right.

That, basically, is all Harry knows after two days. That’s all Louis has told him, at least. But just being around him helps Harry notice little details that he stores in his brain. Like how he hates coffee, but loves tea enough to drink it with no sugar, _just a little bit of milk, thanks._ Or how he has a love for anything furry and fluffy that will cuddle into his lap. He doesn’t even get angry, unlike Niall, when Cookie the monster cat takes a poop on his temporary bed.

How he’s conscience of the way the tees Niall lends him hug the curve of his stomach. How he prefers anything Harry gives him to wear because it’s long and warm and it smells like someone Louis could get used to. How he has a knack for Harrys’ expensive, long, thick jumpers for they shoo away the cold and the numb, and cover up his belly and his arms.

_His arms._

He’d first noticed them when Louis reached out to take the fleece blanket taken from the back of his Ranger. It gave Harry a wave of nausea—not from disgust, no, but from sorrow. His arms are home to angry scars—white, rigid, and puckered, but mostly fresh and irritated cuts.

But all he could notice now, as he sits on the end of the leather sofa with Louis curled up into his favourite blue jumper, lifeless eyes glued to Niall’s plasma, is that this isn’t much of a life he’s living. How was he supposed to teach someone to live, when he himself hardly had a life?

“Louis?”

“Hm?”

Harry hesitates, pulling on a loose thread of his white v-neck. “Want to go out tonight?”

Louis’ eyes don’t move from where Ellen is talking rubbish over Oprah. “Out where?”

Harry’s damn sure they had more conversations in the hour or so Louis was standing on the bridge than the last two days he’s been here, and fuck, it’s frustrating, because that tiny flicker, shimmer, _possibility of hope_ that Harry had seen in the blue eyes before? Gone—vanished, put out like a bonfire before everyone goes to sleep.

“Just to a pub, yeah? Like, with some friends?  Niall will be there and—“

“Sure.”

Oh, okay, that didn’t take much work, and what if Louis’s an alcoholic? Is Harry holding the rats paw and leading it directly to the cheese inside the trap? “Are you, I don’t know, okay with drinking? Because we don’t have to drink or anything, it’s just.” And maybe Harry made a mistake—he should have just called the police the second he saw Louis on the bridge because, yeah, this isn’t going to work, and Louis is, what? His responsibility now?

Louis is looking at him with an unreadable expression on his face, the one he saves, Harry has noticed, just for him. His eyes, like always, are blank, but his mouth is turned up on one side; almost like a tiny, itsy bitsy smile but...not. Like a smirk and a scowl at the same time, like _he’s making fun of Harry_.

“Just let me get ready, yeah?”

And that’s that.

 

“Come in, Harry,” Louis’ voice calls out from inside the guest bedroom.

Harry pushes the door open to find him standing in front of a framed photograph hanging on the wall—one of Harrys. The room is a nice size, much smaller than the main rooms. It has a queen bed with an adorning black leather headboard and a matching black dresser. He doesn’t want to ask about the black sheet draped sloppily over the oval, full size mirror.

“Who are they?” Louis points to a black and white photograph of two women petting a speckled horse.

“That,” Harry points out the younger girl with a sweet, closed-lip smile and large round eyes, “is my sister, Gemma. That’s my mum, Anne.” His mum has a wide, toothy grin and eyes covered by large, black sunglasses that cover up most of her face, and Louis thinks they’re both beautiful, like Harry. 

“Do you, uh, do you have siblings?” Harry asks and immediately regrets it when Louis’ eyes flash with pain and then they’re indecipherable again. A drop of cold sweat runs down Harry’s back and _fuck_ there’s so much Louis is hiding, and yeah, he understands it, but at the same time he doesn’t understand _anything at all_.

Louis moves around the room without a word, concentrating on the other photographs. Black and white photos that show people acting happy, or _being_ happy—Louis wouldn’t really know. Photos that show a glimpse at Harry’s life. Some photographs have Harry in them; in one he’s young with a face and body made of baby fat, the same large, expressive green eyes, and hair cut short to his scalp with a lighter shade of brown; in the rest he’s older with a long, lean body—mostly all torso—, big mop of dark curls, and several tattoos scattered here and there.

But still those same, damn sea-green eyes that say everything that he won’t, and Louis thinks that they, if nothing else, might just kill him.

 

It turns out that Louis likes to drink.

He knows his drinks very well actually, and he’s not bad at handling his liquor.

And, to Harry’s surprise, Louis is a cheerful drunk.

So Harry sits at the end of the U-shaped booth glowering at his best mates because _why the hell do they get to have happy Louis_? Niall catches his eyes from across the booth, the dark lights giving the Irish lad a weird, green tint to his normally sun-bright quiff, and he’s shooting Harry a confused look, darting his pale blue eyes to Louis’ smiling face and back to Harry’s glowering, baffled one on purpose.

Niall doesn’t know anything except that Louis Tomlinson is _an old friend from primary school and he needs somewhere to stay_ , and that besides tonight, he doesn’t usually talk much. Or smile, at all.

Harry just shrugs, because, really? What is he supposed to do? So he takes another drag of his sour-tasting Heineken and just keeps on glowering. Niall cuts off their eye contact to do something on his iPhone and would it be awful to leave Louis here alone with his mates?

No one would believe the Louis Tomlinson here, all wide grins and cheeky comments, taking long pulls of his Corona and Lime, with a perfectly styled quiff, and a borrowed pullover that looks even better on him than it ever did on Niall, was standing from the ledge of a bridge about to leap off just a mere forty-eight hours ago.

Why would they when Harry himself can’t?

Once again, Harry doesn’t _understand_ and he hasn’t ever felt more dim-witted in his fucking life. So he does the thing he knows how to do best.

“Really,” Zayn starts, because when doesn’t Zayn start? “The camera comes out.” Zayn laughs, his eyes squinty and creating deep laughing lines underneath them, and yeah, Zayn’s a beautiful, cynical fucker and the star of many of Harry’s lame ‘photo shoots’ since they were fourteen, but he’s also deep and caring and his best friend who  has admission to the best parties, so Harry keeps him around.

Liam snorts and his whole face lights up in a drunken kinda way, creating small wrinkles on his forehead and they all know tomorrow morning there’ll be voicemails and texts apologizing for _my sad, drunken behaviour, really guys, I’m sorry_. Because now Liam is single, again, and single Liam and drunk Liam is the best kind of Liam. “That fucking camera came out before Harry did.”

The table bursts out into laughter and even Harry cracks a smile because they all know that wouldn’t be anywhere as funny if they were sober, but he doesn’t miss the quick glance Louis shoots him, and he picks up his camera and aims at Louis. He kinda expects Louis to act like Zayn and whine, covering his face with his hands, exclaiming about a bad hair day and no time to exfoliate, but he doesn’t. Louis doesn’t do anything but stare back, and that’s perfectly okay with Harry.

 

Louis wearing a happy mask and his eyes lighting up in a way Harry hasn’t seen before and he needs to see it again, _click_.

Louis smiling as Liam talks with his hands and his words slur about hot, female dancers who get bitchy when you refuse to marry them after a year. “Didya know Zayn is actually a really good dancer?” _Click_.

Zayn and his dark honey eyes, extending his arm out to show Louis his newest tattoo, showing him where he wants the next addition to his sleeve, _click_.

Louis biting his lip and shaking his head _no, I don’t have any tattoos_ because tattoos would mean shrugging off the blue and gray jumper which would mean everyone seeing the little rigid secrets on his arms, so _no, I don’t have one, they’re not really for me_. _Click._

Louis laughing at Niall’s impression of his boss; his eyes squinting, creating adorable, soft crinkles, his pink lips stretching into a full blown grin showing off his laugh lines and high cheekbones—everything Harry had never seen before. _Click._

Louis staring at Harry with no expression on his face; eyes blue, just blue without any emotion; Harry hiding behind his pricey camera, watching Louis, learning about Louis, beers forgotten, the rest of the lads forgotten, just Louis the suicidal boy and Harry the frightened one. _Click._

Harry ends up ordering more beer after seeing Louis’ eye crinkles.

* * *

 

_Your eyes, they shine so bright—I want to save that light. I can’t escape this now, unless you show me how._

A month has passed since Harry saved Louis from jumping.

Harry doesn’t like to call it saving. Sure, Louis isn’t dead _physically_ , but he’s dead in every other way. Louis hasn’t even made eye contact with Harry since the first night they had drinks with the boys. Maybe, maybe Harry is glad for the no eye contact with Louis Tomlinson, because one lifeless look from him could possibly shatter Harry.

Harry feels likes he’s failing and falling all at once. He promised Louis, he promised he would teach him to believe in life again, to exist again. But how can he possibly do that when he knows nothing about the lad? When he doesn’t open up to Harry? How do you help someone who possibly doesn’t even _want_ your help? Who probably thinks that they don’t _need_ your help?

Louis is in the lofty kitchen preparing himself a tea, because, really, that’s all Louis ever does. Wake up, drink tea, watch telly, prepare more tea, and wait for Niall to get home from work.  Apparently, Louis likes Niall enough to talk to him, to look him in the eye, to fucking _laugh_ at the awful jokes Niall says.

Louis is a vase that shattered into a million tiny pieces. He’s trying to glue him back together, but the more he tries and put the pieces together the more he discovers that the pieces don’t fit at all—it’s like they’re pieces from other shattered glass vases. Harry doesn’t know where they came from or who they belong to, or what to do. Harry doesn’t know if he can keep waiting for Louis to open up to him and tell him where his real pieces are. Who has them? He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to take what he’s got and try to fit the wrong pieces together to create a completely new vase.

Louis sits down besides Harry on the couch, both petite hands wrapped around a maroon mug with the University of London logo, and no, Harry won’t ever admit to being fond of the Louis-radar his heart has. It’s like his eyes see Louis, his mind recognizes him as the boy who could potentially crack Harry, and it sends signals to his body, warnings his heart refuses to acknowledge the way it seems to want to fly away with the swallows on his chest. 

And dammit it’s been a little over a month, and he’s falling for a boy with no past and no future, with no regards to the way Harry’s eyes turn into big, pink hearts like some anime character, with absolutely no consideration to Harry’s own glass pieces. Alarms go off inside him when Louis enters a room, when Louis leaves a room, when Louis speaks, when he smiles, when he moves, when he fucking _breathes._ He knows it’s not okay.

Everywhere Harry goes Louis is —there’s no escaping the lad. Fuck, he can’t think normally; the way his senses shut down and it’s just _louislouislouis_ and he invades every molecule of oxygen in the room and Harry breathes him in with no other choice— yes, Harry’s in too deep with a boy who at the end of the day can pick up and leave forever.

“Niall,” Louis’ voice cracks and he clears his throat softly before taking a sip of his tea, eyes glued to the plasma in front of them. “Niall would like to go out tonight—dancing he said? He asked me to ask if you’d like to join us.”

It’s the first time Louis has directly spoken to Harry on his own account and Harry knows it’s only because Niall asked him but shit he can spend all day listening to the raspy northern accent.

“Yeah, I’d love to,” Harry answers. He’s not going to try to start a conversation just to get one worded answers, and even though one worded answers like _okay_ , _yeah_ , _no_ are annoying in texts, they’re even worse in a face to face conversation, or in this case, face to the face watching the telly.

Harry’s not very sure if he wants to try anything at this point.

 

He doesn’t know when he crosses the line between drunk and so utterly pissed that he has to be carried out of the club. But he can guess it probably has to do something with every shot he downed after a stupid male came up to their table asking Louis for a dance and he just waved them off with a polite smile. Probably has something to do with Louis talking to other males, and it _probably_ isn’t healthy to be possessive over something, some _one_ , that isn’t yours.

Harrys’ eyes close and when they open again he’s sitting upright in the back of his Ranger with a glowing blond head in his lap and everything is lost in his mind. Louis is in the passenger seat in front of him and from the side mirror Harry silently watches the _green yellow red_ lights that shine against Louis’ face, and he’s memorized by the way his eyes reflect the colours of the night.

Harry didn’t miss the glances thrown at him by the blue eyed lad during the night; he noticed the way his throat would bob nervously and his eyes would dart away. The darkness of the room highlighted the features of his thin face; long lashes casted shadows across high cheekbones every time he’d blink. Louis had met his eyes many times during the night, before Harry had gotten so wasted, and all he could feel was his heart beat-beating like the hands of a clock.

His eyes open again with a slam of the car door and a _don’t fucking slam my door_ mumbles out of him and Niall with his _stupid, gleaming pokey hair_ climbs over Harry’s limp body, a few pieces of his loose quiff gently poking at Harry’s blushed cheeks. “Get a fucking hair cut, mate.” He pushes Niall’s arse off his lap and the lad stumbles out of the SUV with cross words underneath his breath.

He doesn’t know how he gets out of the vehicle and into the flat, but now he’s tucked into a bed—his, he assumes—and he’s not alone, he realizes when a soft hand brushes away at a loose curl on his forehead, making his heart do that erratic _thumpthumpthump_ that can only be caused by one person.

“Harry.”

His voice is timid and slow, and fuck Harry wishes he was sober, that he had never had a drop of alcohol in his life because all he wants is to sit up and look at Louis—just look and look and look. He wants to meet the eyes so beautiful, so _azure and deep_ that could rival oceans. But he can’t—he can’t sit up for his head feels as heavy as the weight of a dozen elephants, and he can’t look into a pair of eyes because he knows that if he did they would only turn away.

Soft fingers trace the high of his cheekbones. They slide themselves down to hesitantly outline the full of his lips and dip in quietly at his cupid’s bow. “Harry,” Louis whispers. “Harry, I wish I could let you help me.”

The ceiling is like a whiteboard for the trees outside of the bedroom windows in the way they sash sideways with the wind, creating shadows of absolute nothingness, just flickering shapes, and Harry can’t take his eyes away. He can’t see Louis, but he can feel his weight on the mattress and his warmth that drowns Harry’s lungs and has him gasping for air. “Louis.” His mouth feels like its melting wax, the way it moves around his words, twisting and tangling, suffocating his tongue. “I... I can help...”

Louis stiffens besides him and the bed shifts again. “Sleep well, Harry.” His voice is tense and the brick wall that was down for a small moment is up again and doesn’t want to let anyone through.

“No, please,” Harry groans out. “Please, stay with me.” He blindly reaches and meets a thin wrist.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea...”

“Please?” The trees draw on the ceiling again with their budding branches and Harry holds his breath. He hears a quiet intake of air and the weight shifts again and Louis is sitting Indian-style besides his head, and something is actually happening because it’s like Harry can hear the brick wall that guards Louis’ heart tumbling down brick by brick until there’s a pile at the bottom of his rib cage and Harry is sure he’s being dragged down, too.

“What do you want, Harry?”

“I’m, I’m,” Harry stops. What was he going to say again? “Drunk and falling, like the bricks.”

Louis chuckles, making Harry wish he had a tape recorder and some enchiladas because it’s just a _beautiful fucking sound, please do it again so I can record it and maybe listen to it when I’m alone because when well I ever get to hear it again?_ And enchiladas are just delicious.

“You are really pissed, aren’t you? Poor Liam had to carry you out, ‘m sure he was complaining about his back like an old man the whole ride here.”

“You calling me fat?” Harry reaches down and pinches what he believes to be a small roll of fat but is just the thick comforter. “’Cos me and Zayn, we’re the same size, and ‘kay, he works out with Liam all the time, but... But Niall and me, we’re more of sitting...and eating kinda folk.”

Louis pats the mop of unruly curls, and no, last time Harry checked he wasn’t a dog, but it doesn’t stop the quiet _woof_ that escapes from his lips.

“Did—did you just like, bark?”

Harry just shakes his head, eyes drooping involuntarily, “No, that’s really weird.”

Louis shakes the bed with his soft laughter, “You know Harry _is_ a fabulous dog name.”

“No, that’s really... weird,” Harry repeats under his breath.

“Go to sleep, Harry.”

“Stay...”       

It’s quiet except for the loud beating of Harrys’ intoxicated heart that thumps in his ears like the footsteps of giants.

“No, maybe, _no_ , that’s not a good idea, I. I should get back to the guest room.” But he doesn’t move from his spot on the bed, and Louis doesn’t want to move, he doesn’t want to leave, he’s not sure why, really, but _Harry’s here_.

“I want you to stay,” and it’s so simple and sincere coming from Harrys’ mouth because even smashed, with a hazy mind and lips slippery like ice, that’s all he’s really wanted from Louis since he saw him standing in the freezing cold. “Just stay.”

“Okay,” Louis mouths but Harry can’t see him. So he nods, but Harry has his eyes closed and there are soft mumbles escaping from his gaping mouth, and he looks so _peaceful_. It’s just the perfect amount of peaceful—where your face is slacked, your chest rises softly, and your body just _rests_.

He lies carefully on top of the white comforter besides Harry and his long limbs, lets his head fall down on the pillow that smells of Harry—like an expensive fragrance, maybe the Armani he’s seen on Harry’s dresser, and freesia shampoo—, and closes his eyes; he hasn’t slept good since he got to this flat, and sleep sounds so... so lovely. 


	2. May, June, and July - Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so, so sorry this is super late! To those who are waiting patiently, thank you. I had some trouble at my uni and other crappy things like that, and now I’m home, so I’ll be able to write more, so yay.  
> This chapter can be triggering. Please note that this is not how I, the writer, feel towards people who self harm or do drugs, or anything like that. This is all Louis’ perspective and how he, as a person who self harms and has mental instability, feels/thinks about himself.  
> Thanks to @LouisTomlinson for letting me use Cookie. Who’s real and does, actually, shit on beds.  
> May and June are on purpose, yes. I’ll put this now because I kind of don’t like when the notes are at the end for some reason. May and June are like that because I felt that to continue Louis and Harry’s growing relationship and their changes I needed more than one month after April, otherwise things would’ve developed so quickly and in Louis’ state I did not think it was very believable and that it was much too fast. In that case, I did not want May and June just to be pointless fillers. Things will be going rather quickly in July, but August will be quite fun. 
> 
> Not edited, sorry for any mistakes. They'll be fixed.

 

 

 

 

  


* * *

 

 

__

_Eyes can see, eyes can see what we can’t be. Take these stones— now we’re falling. As it grows, we are soaring down._

* * *

 

_I’m coming up only to hold you under, and coming up only to show you’re wrong. To know you is hard; we wonder, to know you is wrong; we warn._

* * *

 

__

 

_Pages between us, written with no end; so many words we’re not saying... Don’t wanna wait till it’s gone._

_Part 1_

With bright light pouring through flimsy, white curtains and something soft and fluffy tickling at the arches of his bare feet, Louis knows it’s almost reaching the early noon. He sees burning red behind his eyelids and feels Cookie move around, stretching her little colourful patched body at the end of the bed, and hears her  opening up her little mouth to let out a small yawn. The sunlight greets him harshly when he finally opens his eyes but everything is softened, like a Photoshop filter, when they land on the bulk besides him, underneath the sheets, illuminated by the white light.

Harry.

It became an unspoken agreement that Louis would—platonically of course, with each respected body on its’ own respected side—share a bed. They also never speak about the nights where Louis would try to sleep back in the guest room and wake up the whole flat with broken screams and cries of help. He knows Harry well enough now—it’s been almost six months months, wow—to notice when the curly hair boy is holding something back, restraining himself from opening up those plump, pink lips and asking, reaching into Louis’ form and pulling up every secret and thought and memory inside the boy. He bites his bottom lip, a little indentation shapes itself between his furrowed brows, and he leans his left side to his right foot, and keeps quiet. 

He’s thankful for that.

And lately, Louis is _only_ thankful for _that_.

He pushes the thick burgundy duvet off his person, making it heap on top of Harry’s sleeping form. He grabs a dark blue jumper lying at the end of the bed, besides the now napping cat, and slips it on over his long sleeve shirt and shuffles his cold feet into Niall’s old, ratty, warm man slippers, but he doesn’t get up from his sitting position on Harry’s bed, his back to the lad, feet touching the ground firmly.

 Louis doesn’t know what it is about Harry Styles that makes him sleep soundless during the nights. He doesn’t understand the way his body seems to malfunction when _green gray blue_ eyes meet his across a room; his legs wobble like Jell-O and his heart races like a Nascar driver. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t understand, and he can’t _want_ to know or understand. He can’t, he _doesn’t_.

It’s Saturday, probably, since Harry is still snoozing away underneath the piles of sheets and the duvet Louis threw on him, and not at the gallery or wandering around the busy streets of London. Louis turns around, his knees on the mattress, and he watches Harry’s body. It moves up and down lazily with each breath he takes, and Louis just wants to rest his head against a skilfully tattooed chest and feel the _updownupdownupdown_ movements. But he won’t, he can’t.

Gently, he pulls the comforter down to see crimson tinted lips and long eyelashes creating shadows on round, fair cheekbones. A song runs through his mind, how does it go? _Strawberries taste like lips do_. Right, the song sung by Ed, Harry’s friend, last time they went to the pub to see him perform. And Louis can’t help but trace his fingers on the plumpness that are Harry’s lips without wondering what his lips taste like.

 There is no doubt to Louis that Harry Styles is beautiful. He’s stunning. His beauty isn’t like a slap in your face, Louis thinks. No, it’s rather soft and gentle and pure, the kind you can see everyday and never get used to. Louis never wants to get used to it. He doesn’t believe he’s ever seen anyone like Harry. He’s not perfect, no, his features are humanly and true and misshaped. His eyes are too big and wide, and Niall calls them frog eyes. His nostrils are too large, and his nose long and smooth. _Penis nose_ , Niall also jokes.

Maybe he’s not perfect, but he’s something else. Something better, more striking, more unique.

He knows Harry but at the same time he doesn’t know much about him. He knows his beauty—he memorizes it during the day; the arcs of his lips, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the lengths of his lashes, the depth of his eyes, the smooth of his jaw. He dreams about it at night; the fragile of his collarbones, the precision of the tattoos scattered on his arms, the expensive white gold watches that hide one of his favourite tats: _I can’t change_ , and the long of his fingers.

He knows Harry’s quirks and smiles and laughs and looks. He knows the faces the lad makes when he’s happy, or discontent, or irritated, or. Louis knows the face Harry gives him. The way his mouth quirks up in the corner by centimetres, and his face visibly relaxes while his body straightens out: alert, attentive, and his eyes turn into something. His eyes are still a mystery to Louis Tomlinson. They’re green or gray or blue, it just depends, but he’s not sure on what. He knows that photography is the most important thing to him, besides his family and friends, and that he started working freelance after dropping out of uni on his first year.

He knows of his kindness; the way he always saves Niall the last biscuit, the way he always makes time at the end of the week to Skype with his Mum, and will stop in the middle of the sidewalk, pedestrians bumping into him and glaring his way, just to take a picture that he’ll think will make his sister smile, or how he always makes sure Zayn gets home safely, all the way across town, after a long night of drinks, and the way _he saved Louis._ Harry saved him and Louis doesn’t know if he should be grateful or not. He’s _angry_.

It’s July now and he doesn’t want to think, he doesn’t want to know, he doesn’t want to breathe. He’s angry—he can feel it bubble up in the streams of flowing lava that have replaced his blood, can taste the bitter tang of it in every breath that meets his taste buds.

He’s angry, maybe, but one look his way from those mysterious, clear eyes dissolves the emotion like acid.

It’s July and he’s still alive.

In the last few months, things have changed. Louis is—cold, he’s still cold towards Harry, in some ways. He talks when Harry speaks to him, agrees with what he says, laughs at his silly, nine-year kid jokes. But he’s also _very_ warm towards the boy. He must drive Harry insane—one minute he’s joking with him, pushing the lad into piles of thick snow on their way to Tesco, his own belly hurting from laughing, or allowing himself to be cuddled while on the couch watching _The Walking Dead_ ; and then he’s locking himself in the bathroom for hours, rocking back and forth, digging his fingernails into his arm, ignoring Harry’s soft pleas for him to come out and talk.

It doesn’t make any sense at all, not to Louis, most definitely not to Harry.

He doesn’t always flinch away at his touches—the soft, guiding hands on his waist, the light grip on his shoulder. And at night, if Harry rolls over and tightens his arms around Louis’ slim waist, breath hot through the thin material of his night shirt, well. No one has to know—not Louis’ dysfunctional, selfish brain. It doesn’t have to know about the shivers that run down his spine bone like little caterpillars whenever Harry touches him, or whispers into his ear something so silly and sincere, and the way that whatever comes out of those red lips is only meant for him to hear—that, _that_ turns the caterpillars into small fluttering butterflies that fly straight into the pit of his stomach.

But some things, even after so many—six?—months haven’t changed. Harry doesn’t know a lot—he, basically, doesn’t know what drove Louis to that bridge on that cold morning. Louis doesn’t want that to change, even if everything around them, everything inside of him, does. Well, _maybe_ he doesn’t.

He reaches over the sleeping body to grab the large Canon sitting on the nightstand. It’s a beautiful camera, one of many,— _a digital SLR,_ Harry had said with pride months earlier—made from smooth, black material with a big lens and a lot of fancy buttons. It must have been really expensive, and Louis knows absolutely nothing about cameras or photos. The only photos he ever took are on his iPhone or his Instagram account, but that was a long time ago—his phone was thrown into the bottom of the Thames after a particularly bad night. It probably wouldn’t have been attractive to take a selfie on the bridge before jumping and Instagram-ing it. Probably.

Harry never goes anywhere without the said camera, Louis has noticed. He always sticks it in the pockets of his coats if they’re deep enough, or in his brown leather messenger bag (or _man purse_ as Niall jokes), or he just carries it around his neck on a black, fancy strap.

Louis pushes down on a small button in the front and the large LCD screen lights up. He copies what Harry’s taught him, and what he’s learned from watching the said boy endless times; placing his eye in front of the clear, little box on top of the camera—Harry had laughed into the hallow underneath his ear and called it the _viewfinder_ , which had him scoff, _duh_ —that shows Harry’s slumbering person, completely disregarding the screen. He moves forward a bit until he gets the perfect, clear image of a peaceful face, and he presses down on the big button on top. _The shutter button_ , right.

The image disappears quickly from the screen, so Louis presses the blue triangle button, and his face lets out an involuntarily, diminutive smile when Harry shows up again. Curiosity gets the best of him and he’s pressing down on another button and his fingers get balmy because he’s there, too, on big screen of the little machine. Louis is flipping through hundreds of pictures of London and nameless strangers and Harry’s three best mates, and _him_. Louis sleeping, awake, laughing, frowning, until he gets to the very last one.

Louis _knows_ Harry takes pictures of him—of everyone. He has dozens of Polaroid photographs of Louis, and while it doesn’t usually bother Louis—he just never looks at them, is just aware of their existence when the flash shocks him and the photograph is sliding out of the little box camera—this picture does. This picture is different.

The last picture has his eyebrows raising, creating small set lines on his forehead, his heart is thumping and aching, and it feels like its _falling falling falling_ out of his chest without a parachute.

Harry didn’t take the last picture; picture six hundred and twenty-three, no. Louis pushes the camera screen closer to his face to make sure his eyes aren’t lying to him, and yep, he’s there and so is Harry and they’re sitting close together in some unknown booth in some unknown pub, and he’s looking at the curly-haired lad with something, _something_ , in his eyes and on his face and it wants to tumble out of his sealed lips, and you have to be blind not to see it because that _something_ is there and it’s bright and clear on Louis’ face and Harry— Harry has that _something_ , too, and it sparkles through his eyes glued to Louis’ mouth, smiling his _Louis smile_ , and his lips are slightly open like he wants to whisper that _something_ to Louis.

He knows what that _something_ is and he knows what the change in his demeanour and the turmoil in his mind mean, he knows, but having it— _confirmed_ , _there_ , for everyone to _see_... It’s different out loud. It’s different when you think it’s just you, it’s silent, and then it’s like a cup of ice water is thrown at you and—and? It’s not silent anymore.

He suddenly can’t breathe and the camera is burning his hands like grabbing the hot end of an iron, so he drops it with a soft thud on the bed, and god, why is he in bed with Harry in the first place? Why is he even here? Louis doesn’t need _something_ , he doesn’t need anything! Especially not a boy—not a boy with too-long limbs, and too-big eyes, and weird chocolate, bipolar curls that can’t decide if they want to be curly or straight or wavy.

And, _God_ , okay, that boy with the stupid, farmer plaid shirts and the too-tight emo skinny jeans _saved_ him. But he didn’t _need_ to be saved. He didn’t, right? He surely didn’t _want_ to be saved. No, no, of course not. He got tricked—tricked by a pretty boy cuddled in a big, warm coat with lavender coloured lips and growing panic in his ever-changing eyes. He felt, he felt important for a few minutes, there, standing on the ledge. Like, maybe, he _did_ matter. Like if he’d jump, Harry’s whole life would be inflicted. Silly thoughts.

Harry, Louis thinks, is beautiful and. And he’s together, he’s a whole, he doesn’t have any missing puzzle pieces and his heart—his heart is still beating strong and going going going—filled. It’s filled with dreams and goals and people and happiness; it doesn’t have any little gaps for Louis to slip through like the ruthless winds underneath door cracks, sand through fingers. Harry is strong, and very much so alive, he’s—he’s fucking _normal_.                                                                                                                                                                   

The bed feels too hot underneath his touch. He can’t lose control, he mustn’t. But... but he doesn’t want to say goodbye to Harry. He’s losing a war, the war in his mind. And it’s like Louis is fighting for both sides of his own revolutionary war; he’s the leader, the commander, of both unions, being tugged back and forth between both clashing sides in a bloody battle. Both sides can’t win—they’ll fight till death.

Who wins? Who gets dragged across the field, bloodied and lifeless? Who stays and who leaves?

He had plans, he did. He was supposed to die that day in February. But now—but now he wants to see what happens.

Harry and him—Louis is not stupid, he really isn’t. He sees the way Harry lights up—green eyes sharp, grey eyes soft, blue eyes bright—when he walks into a room. Frankly, he can’t understand it—he won’t. But his own heart beats faster, too, and something inside of him glows in a way he can’t explain; he’s forgotten how it feels. It’s been two years since he’s been interested in _anything_. It’s been five months since meeting Harry and one of the switches in his body has been flipped up, and he’s humming inside in some bizarre matter, like a machine coming to life. It’s that _something_ and more.

He’s still broken, he knows this. The ache for his own version of life is ringing loud from his thighs, _thirsty;_ and from his hip bones, _deprived_ ; and from his inner forearms, _demanding_ ; and it won’t let him forget.

Louis can’t have that _something_ that shines from crevices in Harry’s bones, grabbing onto him, with an ironclad grip. He can’t have that _something_ reaching out for Harry, either, he. He just can’t. He wants it, wants that grip around him, but.

No.

Harry is stirring as Louis climbs off the bed with haste, slipping back into the forgotten slippers, not bothering to return the favourite camera back to the nightstand where it belongs, next to its’ prideful owner.

He’s always taken the piss at Harry and Niall for their immense, unnecessarily lofty flat, but now, as he runs away from Harry (and his bed, his smell, his sleepy mumbles that make no sense whatsoever, his gentle snores, and his fucking cat) he doesn’t know where to go, where to hide—he feels like a sea turtle caught in a fishermen’s net, squirming alongside the tuna, trying to escape with nowhere to go. He doesn’t belong here.

He rushes past the kitchen, the laundry room, Harry’s studio, and locks himself in Niall’s bedroom. There isn’t a loud, Irish lad in the room and his black varsity jacket isn’t hanging on the back of his computer chair. Louis doesn’t know how much time he has until Niall comes back from wherever he’s disappeared to, so he jogs to the bathroom suite.

He’d discovered on the third day of staying with them and dying of any sort of fix—physical, mental, whichever—that Harry locked his medicine cabinets, stashed away any pharmaceuticals. Niall, however, did not. The bloke is completely clueless, not having noticed how the amounts of Xanax in his prescriptions bottles are going down by the myriads. He feels kinda bad, Louis does, for taking advantage—stealing—from the bloke who has been so opened and kind to him, for letting him stay in his flat rent-free.

But, you kind of have to do what you have to do. Or go insane—even more. 

He‘s not reaching for the pills, instead he goes to the space beneath the large sink to reach for a small, brown cardboard box. Louis doesn’t know why Niall has them, he can’t imagine the bubbly boy, with his loud, cheery laugh or eyes that turn into half moons above his cheeks, being fucked up like Louis, hiding something like that—being in pain. Internally, physically, mentally.

Louis wasn’t like this once. He was happy and loud, like Niall, and he had hopes and dreams and a future like Harry. He was witty and sarcastic, like Zayn; charming and loyal like Liam. He was normal once. He had a family and people to live for.

 _Things happen_ , Louis thinks as he unwraps the little piece of metal. Shit happens, things change, and people leave. It’s every Nicholas Sparks novel ever; then again, those do usually have happy, or more like mediocre endings, and someone always dies. _Shit happens_. It is what it is for a reason.

He presses the blade down against his upper arm, below the crease where his joints meet, and pathetic, is what he is. He’s like a fourteen year girl with a depressing black and white blog, yearning for endless popularity, golden hair, perfect teeth, and the prom king. He’s twenty-three years old, for fucks sake, not some emo girl who doesn’t know any other outlet than self harming or popping pills like they’re Tic Tacs.

He closes his eyes and goes a bit lower on his arm, digging the crimson dipped blade deeper into his skin, cutting it open with false promises of life and a sense of pseudo immovability and promise. It hurts, there’s nothing more to it—it fucking hurts. It hurts him as he tears at the surface, slicing perfect, smooth lines across uneven, riddled, flawed skin. It hurts him inside more than it will ever impact his skin; it hurts to know that doing this, hurting himself in such a disgusting, _pathetic_ way, is the only form, the only reassurance that his body is still moving, that his heart is still beating, that he’s not completely dead.

It’s his punishment. He may not be dead, but he sure as hell still deserves to hurt for what he did those two years ago.

His blood drips onto the white marble countertop in small, relaxed plops, and he stares in short wonder as the crimson evil strikes against the pure innocence. Is it that easy to taint something? To take away the wholesome, the vulnerability of something—someone—and fix it, muddle it up, so that it becomes something worthless, unwanted—damaged goods? Is it that easy, that simple, to at one point be part of something so big, so important just to become _nothing_? Just to become something so insignificant?

The blood that puddles on the marble doesn’t mean anything anymore, just part of something that once was. He looks at the streaks of red across his arm, and relishes in the burn, the throbbing sensation that twins along with his heart. Louis grabs some toilet paper and dabs it against his skin before flushing away the evidence, the water swirling and twisting into a small vortex—scarlet like the remains of a shark attack in the Pacific.

Did Harry find him repulsive when he first saw his scars? Did he think he was pathetic when he stood on the bridge, legs and chest quivering? Did Harry know right away he was a faggot the moment he spoke? Louis doesn’t want to know.

He cleans up the mess on the countertop, scooping up water with his hands and washing the blood away, sliding it down the drain. He closes the box and places it in its’ correct spot, and after washing the blade, he pushes it down to the bottom of pocket in his gray joggers.

He steals a soft, blue hoodie from Niall’s closet and shuts the bedroom door behind him, pushing his hand into his pockets, delicate fingers wrapping around the blade until it stabs lighting into the palm of his hand.

“Oh,” Harry calls from behind him, voice groggy and profound, sleep still hinting at the corners. “Thought you had gone out—you weren’t there when I woke.”

It’s hard to miss the worry in his voice, and that gives Louis a shock of electric current starting at his toes and working its way to the ends of his eyelashes. His hand wraps tighter around the piece of metal in his sweats. “Yeah, hi, I wanted to see if Niall was home, but—?”

Harry smiles, “He left earlier this morning while you were still asleep. He’s at Ed’s; they’re working on some last minute plans for the small jig tonight at the pub...You know, before Ed goes off to New York.” Harry yawns again, stretching his arms above his head, and Louis can’t help but catch the little sliver of snow white skin that shows as the black _Pink Floyd_ shirt rises up, revealing smooth, unflawed hipbones. “Lou?”

“Yeah!” Louis snaps his eyes back up to Harry’s face. He has slight red marks on his left cheek from the pillow, his eyes are puffy from sleep, his pyjama bottoms have small Care Bears on them and are too short at the bottom, reaching a point between his ankles and calves, and Louis thinks he’s fucking beautiful.

And that’s where the problem really lies—Harry’s just so damn beautiful and kind, he’s so sincere and humble, and passionate about everything he does. He only sees the good in people, doesn’t judge them, waits patiently for their story. Everything everywhere just screams _Harry_ and Louis wants to cover his ears with his hands.

“D’ya want breakfast? More like noon, but pancakes are good at anytime, right, Lou?” Harry grins brightly and turns towards the kitchen.

Louis is left standing there, petite hand clutching a razor that just moments earlier was puncturing his skin with hate and disappointment, hearing the pots and pans bangle together and the refrigerator door opening and closing.

-

The bar is packed; the hot air huffing out of the singing bodies stain the glass windows with weakening fog, and it’s nothing but suffocating. Louis is suffocating, but really, there’s nowhere he’d rather be. He’s amazed, actually, at how many have showed up to support Ed before he goes off to his big American adventure, finally getting to record his album after endless EPs. And Harry’s standing behind Louis, swaying gently, his deep, rough voice in his ears, hands tight on Louis’ hips.

“ _Come Sunday, I’ll see that one day you’ll rescue me. And when I leave again, I’ll feel strange. And I’ll never know, oh, I’ll never know if you’re in love again_ ,” Ed sings into the crowd, fingers strumming expertly at his sticker covered acoustic.

To his left, Niall is smiling brightly, singing along to each word like he wrote it himself, fingers twitching and yearning for a guitar.

Harry squeezes his sides, “He’s trying so hard to not jump on stage right now,” he laughs into the empty beneath Louis’ ear, causing the baby hairs at his neck to stand, alert. “Dunno—what’s he gonna do without Ed?”

Louis laughs, sending another glance at Niall, who does indeed seem to be restraining himself.

It feels like someone pinches his heart when he looks behind him, over Harry’s shoulder, at the booths where Liam and Zayn are sitting close, Harry’s abandoned camera sitting on the table, and the raven haired boy, with ruby lips and white angel wings peeking out from underneath a Marvel tee, gives him a small smile, crinkles forming underneath sharp eyes, before taking a drag of his pint. He really likes Zayn and the others.

He shouldn’t admit, he really shouldn’t, but the feeling of _safety_ in some ways, in Harry’s arms, pokes at his ribs, like an annoying little kid, _see see see,_ and the lads are the closest thing he’s had—dare he say it?—to family in a long, long time.He’s probably had too many beers, and the fabric of his light jumper irritates his fresh wounds, and Harry’s scent is surrounding him and picking him up, like he’s stuck in an Armani and lavender detergent soap bubble, floating away, reaching the tops of the pub’s ceiling, and he can’t help but wonder when he’s going to pop.

-

They’ve been there for a little bit more than an hour when it happens. He pops.

“ _Do you ever wonder if the starts shine out for you? Float down, like autumn leaves. Hush now—close your eyes before the sleep, and you’re miles away, and yesterday you were here with me_...”

Harry is still standing behind him, but his arms are now wrapped around Louis’ waist, slouched over, his chin on Louis’ bony shoulder. And then Louis bursts tenderly, just like that. His bubble reaches the ceiling and hits a bright stage light, and that’s that. It becomes too much— _Harry_ _Harry Harry_ and his body, his limbs, his scent, his heat; they wrap themselves around Louis’ person and nudge their way through the cracks of his rib bones to engulf his heart, suffocating it, making it gasp in shock and fright and love. Love: that _something_.

_“Another life that’s gone to waste, another light lost from your face; it’s complicated. Is it that it’s over, or do birds still sing for you? Float down, like autumn leaves. ‘N hush now; close your eyes before the sleep and you’re miles away, and yesterday you were here with me...”_

He pushes Harry’s gorilla hands away from his waist, where his fingers were drawing soothing patterns into the fabric of his sweater, and steps away from the sweet embrace. Harry lets out a squeak of surprise as he almost falls over without Louis to hold him up.

“Sorry,” Louis mumbles, looking away from the younger boy’s fallen face. “Sorry.”

“Lou?” Harry grabs his left arm when he tries to push past him, towards the tables, and Louis lets out a gasp and winces at the grip on his arm, squirming away in pain from Harry. “Louis, fuck, I’m sorry did—did I hurt you?”

_“Ooh, how I miss you... My symphony played the song that carried you out. Ooh, how I miss you, and I, I miss you and I wish you’d stay...”_

He can feel his arm throbbing in protest and it doesn’t feel good; it doesn’t feel satisfactory and comforting like it does when he injures himself purposely. The way Harry had squeezed his arm, in confusion and warmth and with a, a disappointed, sad look on his face—that look had hurt more than possibly any blade. All his stitches are healing, but they are healing wrong, and with one look, one touch from Harry Styles, he’s coming undone.

Louis nods and releases a shaky breath, “Yeah, no, I’m good.”

Harry moves his hand down to hold Louis’ and gives him an assertive nod, pulling him towards the booth, to a smiling Zayn and a blushing Liam. They slide into the U-shaped seat effortlessly and it’s like second nature the way Harry’s arm wraps around frail shoulders.

“Alright?”

Harry squeezes Louis’ bicep, and the older boy nods, giving Zayn a gentle grin, “Yeah, yeah. Everything’s good.” Minus the scoffs and cheeky complaints after Louis steals Liam’s drink, they watch Ed sat on a stool where he belongs; on a righteous stage, and they sing along to the songs they’ve heard countless times, to the lyrics that still shake them a bit—words strong and powerful. There’s something about the lyrics, about the way Ed goes with them, flows, just breezes through a song that captivates Louis. Everything is just so... simple.

-

“Scoot,” Niall nudges Louis’ thigh with his knobby knee, “I’m beat.”

Ed’s show has been over for a half hour, but it’s still early, not even eleven yet, and the lads all unanimously decide to stay a bit late to chat and joke about over some pints, still buzzing from the great performance.

The incident with Harry and Louis’ arm is all but forgotten, well at least for now. There’s no knowing what the younger lad might say when they get back to the flat. 

“Where’d you run of to?” Liam asks, smirk playing about on his clean shaven face, as he flips through the little menu announcing two for one deals on Coronas.

Louis and Harry shuffle ungracefully on the leather seats towards the other boys, Harry’s arm staying nicely wrapped around Louis’ shoulder, making a small spot for the blond. Louis bites his lip at the sweet heat coming from Harry’s delicious thick thigh, warm against his own. There are two layers of jeans separating Louis’ skin from Harry’s: his own dark washed trousers and Harry’s, and for some odd (not at all) reason unbeknownst to Louis, he wishes the layers would disappear as quickly as the slices of pizza and bottles of beer do on Sunday nights in front of the telly with the lads.

Niall beams, bright and strong and white, and makes a motion at the fit brunet waiter standing by the bar who nods and holds up an index finger. “Y’all want another round, yeah? _Oi_ , don’t bloody look at me like that. Z, member that really fit August bloke from your Sociology? Uh, ran into him in the loo ‘bout an hour ago.”

Zayn grins around the lip of his beer, nodding. “And..?”

“Well,” Niall leans over to grab at Louis’ warm Heineken. He shrugs and smiles casually, a dirty glint behind his blue eyes. “Let’s just say he’s a really, big, _big_ fan of Ed’s.”

Groans and chuckles collect from the table, and Harry slaps his hand over his pink, rich mouth after letting out a horrible, disgraceful chortle, and that itself, that _noise_ makes Louis laugh louder, his eyes becoming blue half-moons above his crinkles.

Niall has never mentioned anything in regarding his sexual preferences, and with seeing him checking out birds, or enjoying being grinded on by curvy, fit girls, Louis just assumed. The boy also has a bikini-clad Selena Gomez as his lock screen, so, really. But Louis can’t say he’s really surprised—the Irish native is just so carefree and relaxed, you can’t really expect anything with him.

“So, you told him you were a friend of Ed’s?”

Niall nods, “Obviously Li, otherwise I wouldn’t be in the toilets for such a long time.”

Louis smiles, “Wonder what he’d have said if you told him that you co-wrote some of the songs.”

Zayn snorts, “Probably would be in a cab heading home.”

The waiter stops in front of their table, handing each boy a litre and sets a basket of chips in the middle. 

“So, wait,” Harry picks at the moist label of his empty bottle with his free hand, the other falls from Louis’ shoulder to underneath the table, squeezing his thigh gently. “His name is August?”

“Yeah, he’s a month. Like, April, May, June, Autumn, Summer, Sky; you know the like,” Niall adds, eagerly reaching for a golden chip. “”Cept Autumn and Summer are seasons, but all the same in context.”

“Why do people name their children after things?” Zayn muses, “Like, how Chris Martin named his daughter Apple. A bloody fruit! And didn’t Monica name her kid Coco? It’s the Spanish word for coconut; also it’s really much a stripper name. And Jay Z and Beyonce named their daughter Blue Ivy. And don’t for—“

“Whoa, there, _Zayn_.” Liam slurs, eyes wide and amused. “What kinda name‘s Zayn? _Zain_ , with an I, too.”

Zayn scoffs, offended. “It’s a real damn name!”

“No, ‘s not,” Niall says around the chips in his mouth. “Not real if autocorrect changes it.”

The dark skin boy rolls his eyes and throws a chip at Niall, who opens his mouth to catch it, and watches in mock sorrow as it ends up on the floor, stopped on by some Vans. “All I’m saying is that people should stop giving their poor children thing-names.”

“Like Daisy?”

The lads turn to stare at Louis, surprised by his input.

“Daisy is a flower, but in principle it’s the _name_ of the flower, Lou, so I don’t think that counts,” Harry gives him a warm, closed lipped smile, rocking his knee into Louis’.

Liam munches on a chip, in thought. “Complete stripper name, though.”

Louis curls into himself, arms wrapping around his small middle, fingernails digging into his sides. He’s already said too much, he has, _he has_ , however Harry’s thigh still rests next to his, and his creamy, left hand is still lying like a ton of bricks on his leg, and he’s so hot. Louis feels so blistering, like boiling water bubbling with urgency and with the need to say _something_ , anything, about to spill over the edge of the pot, crackling into the flames. He hasn’t said his sister’s name in over two years, but it feels like nothing happened, nothing has changed, the way it just flowed out of his mouth like honest lyrics out of Ed’s.

He doesn’t miss the way Harry’s head jerks back in his direction, curls moving fast, or the way Liam starts to choke on his fry and Zayn pounds on his back with a flat palm, “Daisy’s my sister’s name.”

_Daisy was my sister’s name._

Everyone starts speaking at once and Louis doesn’t know if he’s spilling over the edges of the pot now, dribbling slow and hissing as he touches the blue flames, and crackling as he evaporates. Or, maybe that’s just what he wants—to be forgotten until he’s gone, like water sitting in a pot in the sun’s way, until he evaporates.

“Louis, I didn’t know you had a sister...”

“Oh, fuck me, Lou, I’m sorry, I—“

“Why didn’t you say you had a sister?”

 “Liam, you damn idiot, you can’t just go around saying people have stripper names.”

“Being a stripper is a hard, respectable job though, you need a lot of leg muscle and the hours kinda suck, and—“

“Ni, shut up.”

He doesn’t realise he’s doing it until he feels Harry pulls his finger nails away from his skin, on top of the same spot where the younger boy had accidentally grabbed him too hard hours earlier. He doesn’t notice everyone watching them in silence, the pub loud and drunk around them, bodies moving, swaying, and clueless to the turmoil inside of Louis. He doesn’t see how blood is flowing slowly through the thin grey materiel until Harry touches him lightly and pulls back with crimson stained fingers, and Liam gasps.

He can only feel, feel, feel and wish for a sweet numb. There’s never a balance, never. He’s too hot, boiling lava, but he’s speckled with a light cold on the pads of his fingers and on the inside of his mouth, like he’s touching snow—there’s always a cold burn. He doesn’t want to feel the underlying currents of lighting that swish through his body when Harry looks at him with those green, gray, blue eyes. Louis doesn’t like how his body is alert, his veins frayed and sparking when green eyes look away from him and down to his fingers, tainted with light blood. 

“Louis?”

He can only shake his head no. _No, please, no. Don’t draw attention to it; don’t pay any mind to me, please._

“Babe, you’re bleeding,” Zayn says slowly from across the booth.

Everything’s happening so fast, and the bubble is bursting again, popping even louder than before, he’s so surprised his mates can’t hear it and—and the mates. The boys all know now. They know he’s a freak, unstable, disgusting, and pathetic. They’re not going to want anything to do with him now, not after this. He refuses to meet anyone’s eye, doesn’t take his own away from Harry’s unreadable expression. Does he hate him now, too?

“I—I’m sorry.”

Harry nods and wipes his fingers on his black jeans, “No, Louis, don’t be. It’s okay. Why don’t we go get you cleaned up, yeah?”

Niall scrambles out of the seat, and on another matter, another day, another reason, maybe Louis would’ve laughed at the look of panic on his rosy face.

-

The toilets are empty, silent compared to the rest of the pub with its clinking glasses and cheery laughs. Louis is sure, as Harry leads him over to the sinks with a tight grip on his hand, like maybe he’ll just vanish if he lets go, that the said boy can hear the ba-bum ba-bum of his beating heart—it pretty much echoes throughout Louis’ body, pounding in his ears, against his ribcage like a caged beast. He can’t look away from Harry’s thick mane; wisps of dark brown curling above his ears, a thick pile of waves pushed back from his face, away from those eyes.

When Harry turns the water on and jumps back slightly from the strong pressure moments too late, spraying his gray vest, Louis moves his glance up towards his eyes. There are a lot of beautiful parts to Harry Styles, Louis thinks, lots and lots. Every part of him is beautiful, but his eyes. His eyes are on a whole other category. When Harry turns back around and pulls the sleeve up on Louis’ arm, Louis doesn’t look away from his eyes.

He sees the tightness around Harry’s eyes when his sleeve is pulled up, and the way those pink lips tug downwards when boy suggests that _it’s just better to take it off, Lou_. So he does, he takes off his thin jumper—Zayn’s now ruined, gray jumper—and he’s cold all the sudden. It’s like the lava that his been flowing through him for so long has vanished, has been put out, has flowed right into the Atlantic. The stove has been turned off and the pot of boiling water has been moved to the burner behind to cool off. 

Even when he was standing on the bridge, snow surrounding him, freezing water below him, in nothing but a tee and jeans—even then he felt warm inside, felt his blood cells blistering. It’s weird, really odd, he knows it, “’Cause aren’t people like me supposed to be cold?”

Harry looks up from where he’s wetting a brown napkin at a sink, a crinkle in between his brows. “What do you mean?”

“You know,” Louis nods towards his exposed arm. “People like me—all suicidal and dead, and what not. They’re supposed to be sad and cold. You always hear about people like that, me, being cold, right? So why was I boiling?”

Harry slowly grabs Louis’ wrist, all gentle and sweet, like he’s playing with his neighbours’ daughter, Lux. “You were hot, Lou?” He starts below the crease of his elbow, pat downs to stop the blood. “Boiling how?”

“I don’t really know—I’ve always just felt, dunno, hot. Like my insides were cooking, but I always heard people would be cold all the time. Like, dead. I felt the opposite of that—dead but burning at the stake, yeah? ‘M not sure how to explain it, sorry.”

Harry just gives him a small smile, warm, and looks back up. “No, Lou, I get it.”

His mind is running, and Louis knows Harry thinks he’s repulsive, wretched. Maybe he’s just being Harry: all kind and nice and Mother Theresa, or maybe he’s _really_ just being Harry; ‘cause he’s looking up at him, where he’s hunched over, dabbing a wet napkin at the blood drying on his arm, like he did in that picture; picture six hundred twenty-three. He hadn’t even asked why he was bleeding; he just knew and didn’t make a big deal about it in front of their mates, because he’s fucking _Harry._

Louis’ mind is screaming, _no no no, he thinks you’re disgusting, worthless_ , and his heart is shouting, too: _he loves you, he cares for you, just let him do this, let him see you_. And he is: he is letting Harry see him. He’s letting Harry run his eyes all over his arm, all over the injuries he gave to himself in his worst moments, and he’s exposed like he’s never been before. No one but himself has seen this. No one but Louis knew about this.

He’s all sorts of opposites and contradictions and oxymoron’s.  Instead of listening to his mind, he’s hearing his heart, for now it has a purpose again, someone to beat for, and Louis didn’t think that’d happen again. He’s a bit okay with his bubble popping, encaging his heart from that steal lock. Harry’s here, and he’s smuggled his way through the jail bars of Louis’ cell, and plunge deep into the prison of his heart.

“You’re not boiling anymore? You said you were hot, so, are you not anymore?” Harry has back to him now, standing at the sink again, eyes meeting Louis through the mirror.

He shakes his head, “No. I—I’m like, not hot, but not cold either?” He props his hands up on the wet counter, and as carefully as he can, without putting pressure on his injured arm, he lifts himself up to sit on the counter. He grimaces when the cold water seeps through the bottom of his jeans. “I’m just warm.”

Harry nods and digs into his back pocket for his brown leather wallet, and after some struggle with his tight, _tight_ black skinnies, he pulls it out with a grin. He ruffles through some crinkled receipts, a condom, loose gum wrappers, and two, small Polaroid photographs before pulling out a thick bandage. “Oi, don’t look at me like that! ‘M a bit messy, that’s all. And you know Niall; always injuring himself. Need backup.”

They fall back into the comfortable silence as Harry unwraps the Band-Aid and with carefully, steady fingers covers up Louis’ deepest cut. He holds his breath, teeth biting into the inside of his cheek, when Harry wordlessly leans down and places a soft kiss on top of the bandage.

“Reckon we go home, yeah? Some things we should talk about.”

 

With large hands secured on his waist and his own slightly smaller one planted on top of Harry’s left, Louis manoeuvres through the small crowds towards their booth, where Ed is now, drinking a beer left by the younger boy, who greets them with a large grin.

“Everything alright?” Liam switches his glance from Harry’s tightly-pressed lips, to Louis’ small smile and hand on top of Harry’s at his waist, to Louis’ limp arm, dangling by his side, where the blood is still stained through the light fabric, and back up again to Harry.

Louis nods, “Yeah, good—good, we’re fine, but I think we’re gonna be going, lads.”

Liam frowns, “Look, Lou if this is about me calling your sister a stripper, like, I didn’t mean to, mate.”

Niall snorts, pulling away from his bottle and nudges Ed in ribs, “Liam called Louis’ eight year old sister a stripper, and that’s what you missed on the last episode of Glee.”

“Uh, no, no I did not! I said that it was _name_ , a stripper’s name,” Liam glares at the grinning blond in mock anger, “and how didya know Daisy’s eight?”

Something flops inside of Louis’ stomach, churning, and the tips of his fingers feel like they’re burning cold, like he’s slowly shoving his hold bare hand into piles of thick, cold snow. It’s just—they’re talking about _Daisy_ , and he knows it’s not their fault; they’re a bit clueless because Louis wanted it that way, but they’re saying her name and wording it to make it sound like she’s still alive. Daisy isn’t eight anymore, nor did she ever get to see the tender age of nine.

Harry’s shuffling his feet beside him and all Louis can feel is that slow, burning sensation returning to his insides and Harry's glance. In fact, they’re all looking at him with curious eyes, like _hey_ , maybe after like, five months they really don’t know more than two fucks about him. They’ve been letting a complete stranger live with them for so long, and they call him their mate and go clubbing with him and watch shitty chick flicks and horror movies with him on Sundays, and is he? Is he really their mate when they don’t know about his family or his childhood or past relationships?

“Lou told me,” Niall shrugs looking around the table. “One night. I think it was during the Miley Cyrus concert—which, by the way, was fucking _brilliant_. None of you twats wanted to go and H had to back out because of some shit at the gallery, he _said_ , whatever, Lou and I know it’s because he didn’t want to ruin his indie cred.”

Oh, right, the Miley concert. He can’t remember the concert itself; just that they came home totally wrecked at four in the morning, and fully clothed Louis fell on top of Harry’s sleeping body with a grunt. Harry squeezes Louis’ side, and the latter knows he’s probably thinking the same. He surely does not remember talking about one of his sisters.

“Lou,” Niall takes another sip of his beer, completely oblivious to the tension. “Do ya ‘member? Probably not; you were talking mad shit, man. I think it was his first time rolling, ‘cause he was all, _if my twin sisters could see Hannah Montana now, dry fucking those little people with nipple pasties on_ , or something. Daisy and Fiona, yeh?”

Louis shakes his head, looking up at the ceiling, at the steal piping, and tries to swallow, but all his spit has dried up and he’s alone at the Sahara desert. “Um, no.  No, it’s Phoebe. Daisy and Phoebe.”

“Oh, right.”

When he looks back down, Ed has a hand on his Heineken, another on tight on his mobile; Niall is looking around the table, confused, blue eyes a bit hazy from the drinks and excitement and chaos; Liam is looking down at the table, where his hands are wrapped around the sea green bottle, slowly peeling off the label; and Zayn is looking at Louis. His hazel brown eyes are puzzled, confused, hurt, and Louis knows why.

Out of all the guys, Harry's best mate was different, a bit reserved and quiet around him at first, and Louis had thought Zayn definitely didn’t like him. It quite took Louis by surprise when Harry said Zayn, besides Niall, was his _best,_ best mate. The two were just so opposite, but Zayn had called Harry his rock one night months earlier, over a few bowls of green on the balcony. The raven-haired boy spoke about his sisters and culture, how hard it was when his dad walked in on him and some bloke at sixteen. When he took up smoking and how they found out Harry had asthma. How his relatives look down on him because of his career as an artist and endless amounts of tattoos. And with a grin, he told Louis about meeting the curly bloke during primary, in the school’s chorus, so _that bullshit you told Niall about knowing Harry since primary college does not fly with me, mate_.

“What ‘bout you?” Zayn had lit up a fag and breathe in deep.

“Not much about me to say, suppose. Guess ‘m a bit lost.”

Zayn nodded and handed over the cigarette, “Harry says you’re going through some shit right now, but yeah, we’ve all been there. Harry’s just a prick who knew what he wanted to do for the rest of his life since he was a bloody kid, messing bout with Anne’s camera.”

So, yes, Louis can understand the look at Zayn’s face, and Harry's tense body, because how many endless opportunities has he had to bring up Daisy and Phoebe, or anything remotely personal?

The elephant in the room is spraying water out of its trunk and stomping about and all Louis can do is, “’M very sorry bout your jumper, Zayn.” He wonders if they lads had ever asked themselves why Louis would only wear long sleeve shirts or thin pullovers in _July_ or why he’d refused to jump into Liam’s pool with them during their barbeques. No question there’s no wondering now.

Zayn waves him off, “Don’t worry about it, Louis. Wasn’t particularly fond of it anyhow; grey’s not my colour.”

“Zayn Malik can’t pull off grey? Astonishing, no way,” Niall eyes go round with faux shock. “Zayn Malik swears he can look fit in anything.”

 “Sod off. Isn’t astonishing a _gigantic_ word for you, Niall? Did you Google it?”

“Oi—!”

“Anyway,” Harry clears his throat. “I reckon we should be off.”  He goes around Louis to hug Ed. “You did amazing tonight, mate.”

-

 

“So,” Harry mumbles as they step inside their home, hooking his toes into the backs of his boots, sliding them off his ankles slowly, patiently, like they have all the time in the world, and bends down to place them neatly against the wall. “’M gonna start the kettle, we’re going to have a long night, I think.” He flashes a quick smile to Louis and heads off to the kitchen.

And do they? Does Louis want that? To just lie with Harry every night and forget it all? Like that famous Snow Patrol song. He hasn’t heard it a long time, honestly before he started living with Harry and Niall he cut off all his favourite things, that including music. He picks up Niall’s forgotten iPod from the coffee table and hooks it up to the dock; something tells him the lad’s going to have it.

He sits back on the comfy leather couches as the song rolls in and smiles at Harry’s loud pot banging. He looks around the room and it feels like home. This feels like home, like their home—Louis and Harry and Niall’s home. He feels wanted here and cherished, and yes, he has so many secrets and a past that haunts him every day, but they still open up to him and confide in him and just fucking welcome him, even if all they know is his first and last name.

_If I lay here, if I just lay here, would you lie with me and just forget the world?_

And the telly hung from the red brick wall feels as much his as it does to Niall and Harry, and they wrestle over the remote sometimes (Harry wants to watch The Bachelor (Louis does humour him most of the time) and Niall and him just want to watch the football game, and it doesn’t matter that Niall has his own plasma in his room or Louis and Harry have one in theirs. _Theirs_ , let’s be honest.

 _I don’t quite know how to say, how I feel... Those three words are said too much; they’re not enough_.

His own—new and borrowed—clothes are stuffed tight besides Harry’s expensive designer jeans with the many holes and his vintage band tees in their shared closet. His Vans are sat besides Harry’s suede boots and scuffed Chucks, and his hair products and shaving kit are sat besides Harry’s in their shared bathroom with one single sink.

Everything around him—from the dog-eared paperbacks in the book case below the telly to the chipped, handless mugs in the kitchen, to the yellow cashmere throw touching Louis’ thigh here on the couch—everywhere is Harry. He’s all around, in the air that he breathes, and maybe that’s not such a bad thing. This—this is Louis’ home, too.

 He sees traces of himself all around the room. From the tea rings on the wooden table (much to Harry’s dismay: _Louis! Coasters, please!_ )to the PS3 controllers dangled on the floor. He’s here, too, and the wanting and wishing he wasn’t is fading quickly with every breath he sucks in.

“All that I am, all that I ever was, is here in your perfect eyes...they’re all I see,” Louis mumbles, fingers playing with the cashmere fringe. “I don’t know where, confused about how as well... Just know that these things will never change for us at all.”

 “If I lay here,” Harry grins, coming from the kitchen to set two steaming mugs on the table, coaster-less. “If I just lay here, would you lie with me and just forget the world?” He sings loudly, belting out the last verse perfectly.

Louis smiles timidly, “Probably not. You’d fall asleep and it’s quite hard to wake you in the mornings.” He leans over to grabs his favourite mug (it’s white and has a chipped side thanks to Niall’s awful dishwasher loading skills and has a messy scrawl that, they assume, reads _Trust me, I’m a doctor)_ without hesitation—Harry’d mastered the perfect, ten out of ten, Louis approved tea on day two.

“You’ve got a lovely voice, Lou.” Harry says after a few quiet seconds. “I bet you could make something out of it.”

Louis scoffs, surprised. “ _Me_? Did you just not hear yourself? You could be a singer, model-on-the-side type or something; if you weren’t so talented with those cameras I’d question your sanity.”

“Model, huh?”

A flush spreads across Louis’ sharp cheekbones, and whoa, blushing? He’s a total thirteen year old girl; he’s probably worse than his sisters ever—no. He’s not going there, no way. “So Ed and New York, eh? What’s this about you leaving?”

Ed’s quick grin and statement at the bar really bothered Louis and on the whole ride back to the flat he couldn’t help but wonder—Harry leaving for New York this summer? _See you in New York, mate. It’s going to be grand, innit?_

Harry nods and clears his throat, putting his (in Louis’ opinion) ruined, overly-sweet tea down. “It’s just something quick, like, two weeks tops, and actually, um, I kinda wanted to talk to you about that. But, but I think we should talk about you first. If you want, of course.”

The tables have turned and its Louis, who has to speak now, has to open up about everything; why he’s the way he is. He knows he doesn’t owe Harry this, he doesn’t need to say anything, and he can simply refuse, put his tea down, and head off to bed where a recorded episode of Breaking Bad is waiting for him. His mind is screaming that: to leave, to go, and to be quiet. He might not owe Harry this, but he feels as if he owes himself this.

He puts his tea on the coffee table and takes the biggest breath his lungs can hold, and goes to unzip his hood. “I bet I look daft—it’s July and I’m still wearing a fucking jumper.” He throws his blood-stained jumper over the back of the couch and stands up to unzip his skinny jeans. “Bet you knew, didn’t you? Like, I mean why else? Why else, yeah, would I wear that?”

Harry doesn’t look away from his eyes when his jeans drop to the floor and he’s standing only in his pants and a _The Who_ tee. “I thought that you were just hiding, Lou,” he whispers softly. “I had no idea you—you were still hurting so much.”

“Yes, well.” He sits back down on the couch, crossing his ankle, pants riding up his thighs and those wounds are visible now, too.  “It’s disgusting, isn’t it, Harry? I’m all nasty. Scarred like I just came back from some war, or like. I don’t know. It’s—I’m disgusting.” He slides his pants further up his thighs, revealing thick, pink and white puckered lines.

Harry slides his long fingers up Louis’ pants, tracing a pink, wrinkled cut with his index, an act so sweet it makes Louis’ eyes go glossy. “No, Louis. I don’t think you’re disgusting, far from it. I think you’re so strong and fucking gorgeous—?”

“Harry, please, let me,” Louis whispers, slowly grabbing Harry’s hand and curling his own into the big, manly paw. “There’s so much that I want—so much that I need to say. So, so much to say to you, Harry Styles, god, I—I know that I don’t owe you anything, not this, maybe rent money, but—?”

“Louis we already talked about the rent money and you know Niall and I don’t mind, really, it’s—?”

“Harry,” Louis smiles, squeezing his hand, “Shut up, listen, I need to say this. Please, otherwise I don’t know if... I need to say stuff, okay?”

Harry just nods and moves a strand of sandy brown hair from Louis’ blue blue blue eyes; Michelangelo’s Sixteenth Chapel blue. “But I need to say something first, alright? Please just—just let me say this, and then you can say whatever you need, Lou.”

Louis clears his throat, agreeing, and moves his gaze to the coffee mugs sitting patiently, waiting, on the table. Coaster-free. “I wasn’t always like this, you know? Yeah, like I was the golden boy. I had, I had everything, Harry.” There are little holes burning into his lungs, like cigarette burns, small and white-hot, hurting when he breathes in.

Harry presses his lips together and with his free hand, he gently runs his fingers across the self-inflicted wounds on Louis’ left arm. “Why didn’t you say anything,” he asks. He runs his thumb over the bandaged one, the deep one. He was thankful it wasn’t deep enough to need stitches, but it still worries him. It worries him, a lot. “Louis, why didn’t you tell me you were hurting?”

“Harry, Harry please don’t, I can’t, Harry,” Louis replies shaking. The living room is spinning like the world’s being spun on a finger, and he feels the blue flames start back up again in his insides; he’s so exposed, only in his tee and blue pants, and Harry is touching him. Touching him where people have never been before, where only Harry has seen. He feels vulnerable, exposed, disgusting—but Harry isn’t looking repulsed, or ashamed, and his eyes aren’t filled with pity, or even worse, sympathy. He’s just worried.

“I feel like I’ve failed you. I promised, fucking _promised_ , that I would help you. That I would figure you out and help you escape your demons, figure out a way to make you happy, and I’ve failed. I failed you. You’ve been hurting yourself, prying open at your skin, and I’ve been clueless.”

The room stops spinning, his heart stops pounding, and a wave of cold flows through him. “I’m shit, Harry. Utter shit. I’m so bad for you, and yet here I am. I’m still here and thanks to you, and you know what? I want to be mad at you for stopping me that day. I want to with all the strength in me to say fuck you, and just like, up and leave. And you’ve been nothing, but, but an angel. You haven’t failed, you haven’t failed me at all, Haz. I’m still here.”

Harry moves his hand from Louis’ arm, to put a finger underneath the lads’ chin and pull it up, meeting his eyes. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“You know how, like, everyone always says to let go of the past? You’re supposed to let the past go and move on. You have to let the past die so you can live for the now. But, how? How do I do that, H? There’s already so much death—my past is death, and do I just let it die again? Can that happen? That’s why—I can’t let go, I can’t live. It’s the only thing I have, my past.”

Louis looks away from Harry and tugs on his shirt. Harry’s gaze is concerned and confused, and it’s burning holes into his skin, and he’s actually going to say it and that’s freighting. What if Harry doesn’t want him anymore? What if Harry gets disgusted and turns him away? It’s been several months and he can’t live without the boy now, he just can’t.

He’s hot cold, cold hot; his body is made of frayed nerves, sparking, but he’s freezing to the touch.

Harry must know, Harry must sense it, so he wraps the cashmere throw over Louis’ shoulders and waits. And that’s all Harry ever does, Louis thinks. He waits. He waits so patiently with a kind smile on his beautiful, cherubic face, and why? Why does he do that? Why—how is he so perfect? Love is rushing through him like a waterfall flows.

He fucking loves Harry, and something tells Louis Harry might feel similar, too, otherwise who would wait so long for one person? One meek, broken person.

“Oh, Louis,” Harry frowns, reaching out and wiping the trail of wet tears from the smaller boy’s face. “Why are you crying, love?”

There are sobs breaking free from Louis’ small body and tears rushing down his cheeks. “Two years ago, oh God, Harry. I—I killed my sisters.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/thoughts make me verrry happy!


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